


The Underground

by miraworos



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group I [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale rescues Crowley, Identity Porn (if you squint), In a Tube Station, M/M, Meet-Cute, One of them is famous and the other one is Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Crowley has to take the Tube for the first time since he became uber-famous, and he happens across the one person in all of London who has no idea who he is.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group I [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937917
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91
Collections: GO Meet-Cutes





	The Underground

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Best Remedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655550) by [CatofApocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatofApocalypse/pseuds/CatofApocalypse). 



> This fic was written as part of the BT Tower Telephone event in which prompt fic or art was partially redacted, leaving the following person with just a hint at some of the elements of the piece that came before. My prompt for this fic was partially redacted art by CatofApocalypse (see the Work Inspired By link). Thanks to Do It With Style Events for organizing this!

Crowley rarely took the Tube. And by rarely, he meant never. Since his career had taken off, his assistant Warlock had always rented him a car. But he’d sent Warlock home early, as the man had somehow come down with the flu or something, and the sound of his groaning and blowing into handkerchiefs had driven Crowley to distraction.

Only problem was, Crowley had never called a car on his own. He’d no idea how to even go about it—hadn’t so much as hailed his own taxi since the days of the Yellow Pages. He knew how to work the Internet, of course, but he didn’t know the name of his preferred car service, and he wasn’t up for breaking in a new one.

Which is how Crowley found himself hunched over his phone, hat covering his distinctive copper hair, and sunglasses obscuring his eyes, as he tried to look like every other blighter waiting for the Tube in Aldgate East station. Must be doing a fair job, though, as he got jostled like everyone else as well.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon.”

Crowley didn’t answer, just shuffled to the side without looking.

“I say…”

 _Oh, Satan, here it comes_.

He was already marshaling his arguments about how he was not that famous bloke from television, and therefore no, he would not give his autograph, as he turned to face whatever plebeian had recognized him.

“…I believe you dropped this,” the man finished, handing him his wallet.

Crowley blinked in surprise—in a number of surprises, actually. The first being that anyone had bothered going to the effort of handing him back his wallet. The second being the man himself. He looked like a sepia-tinted photograph from the 1860s, only with less beard and more smile.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Better not,” the man said, his smile turning wry. “Pretty sure it’s illegal to thank people in a Tube station.”

“Right, of course. Law passed in 1656, was it?”

“We are a forward-thinking people.”

What was happening? Did this man truly not recognize him? That hadn’t happened to Crowley in…lifetimes, surely.

“You’re headed to …?”

“St. James Park. Yourself?”

“Bond Street.”

“Bond Street? Wouldn’t Central have been more direct?”

“Oh…er…been awhile since I took the Tube.”

“Never mind. You can hop off at Westminster and take Jubilee to Bond Street.”

Crowley snorted. “Now I really _must_ thank you. With my luck, I’d have got stranded down here forever, going round and round in circles.”

The man laughed, and Crowley felt his soul leave his body in a way he hadn’t since he’d got his first Michelin star.

The train pulled into the station, and the man gestured for Crowley to precede him.

“After you.”

“Do you…?” Crowley started, the question nearly popping out before Crowley could stop it. No need to tip him off. “Do you have a name?” he asked instead, as he and the man boarded the train.

“Aziraphale Fell, master of antiquarian books,” he said. “And you are?”

“Crrr…enshaw.”

“Crrrrenshaw? That’s quite the pronunciation. Is it Scottish?”

“Yes, but most call me J.”

“Jay?”

“No, just J.”

“J? As in, the letter? Does it stand for something?”

“Ehh…it’s just a J, really.”

“I see. And I thought _my_ name was weird.”

Crowley laughed at that. “So tell me,” he said, finally starting to believe the man had no idea who he was, and wasn’t that just delightfully refreshing? “What exactly is an antiquarian book?”

Aziraphale positively glowed with excitement as he launched into an explanation that Crowley maybe heard one or two words of. He was too captivated by that glow. By the time they’d reached Westminster, Crowley was well and truly besotted. His feet had no desire to carry him off the train, and he very nearly listened to them. But it would be silly to cave to such ridiculous infatuation, and if there was anything that Crowley’s brand was categorically _not_ , it was silly. So he bid the man a regretful farewell and stepped off the train.

“J! Watch out!”

The next thing he knew, Crowley was lying flat on his back on the grimy station floor, his hat flying off, his glasses skittering across the cement, and an antiquarian book master laying flat on top of him. Bewildered, he stared at Aziraphale, awaiting some sort of explanation. Aziraphale pointed up at a camera drone swooping over the crowd, blades whirring.

“Sorry!” called a grubby teen standing next to a nearby pillar. “Still getting the hang of—oh, my god! Are you Anthony J Crowley?”

Crowley let his head fall back against the cement. There went any hope of Aziraphale treating him like a normal person.

“Here. Let me help you up.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand as the man clambered off him, pulling Crowley quite forcefully upwards. He was clearly strong, which made Crowley even more weak in the knees. What he wouldn’t give for his sunglasses back to hide the emotion he was sure his eyes were showing.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled. “About not telling you.”

“Telling me what, dear?” Aziraphale said, stooping to pick up Crowley’s glasses and hand them back to him.

“My real name.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I suppose I can understand why.”

“You can?”

“It’s not entirely safe giving strangers your personal information. Besides, I confess, I saw your true identity when I handed you your wallet.”

“You knew this whole time?”

“Yes.” He blushed adorably. “But I’m curious how that young person knows you.”

“It’s…it’s because… You don’t know who I am?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Who you are?”

Crowley realized he was staring slack-jawed and snapped his mouth closed. “Never mind. Didn’t you say you were going to St. James Park?”

“I did.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Mind some company?”

“Not at all. It’s not far. Perhaps, given the perils of the Underground, we should walk?”

“Sounds good to me, angel.”

“‘Angel?’”

“You did just save me from certain death.”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale protested. But he looped his arm through Crowley’s as they took the escalator up to the street.

“So, tell me, dear. What do _you_ do for a living?”

“I’m… I own a restaurant.”

“You do?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as they had when he’d talked of books. “You wouldn’t happen to serve crepes, would you?”

Crowely chuckled. “Well, as a matter of fact…”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [slyther](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662780) by [glitterandtrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandtrash/pseuds/glitterandtrash)




End file.
